Yellow
by FalsettoSlumber
Summary: Disdain for anything muggle has kept Draco Malfoy from finding out the truth about his rapidly decreasing state of health. When he finally finds out the truth, it shatters his world. Can Harry Potter, the man with the broken heart, fix everything?
1. One: Fade Away

_Your skin  
><em>_Oh yeah, your skin and bones  
><em>_Turn into something beautiful  
><em>_You know, you know I love you so  
><em>_You know I love you so  
><em>Yellow, Coldplay

* * *

><p><strong>Draco's POV<strong>

The sky outside is dark, tinged with the light of fading stars. The midnight darkness of the sky fades into a soft teal as it recedes gently down into the hills; the sun is beginning to come up, touching the rolling landscape in a somewhat cold, wintery light. The yellow of the low slung orb casts a strange light across the hills and through the floor length window of the manor's most prominent room; a parlour decorated in the typical colours of Slytherin house. A rich emerald green covers the mahogany panelled walls, and the many trinkets covering the tops of dressers and spindly legged tables are all silver, glistening in the cheerless light filtering from the high chandelier.

He grips his hands against the sill of the window, knuckles prominent in the light. Shadows pronounce themselves starkly against the slightly waxy skin, as it appears yellowed, almost with age, in the light. Blond hair falls limply into his eyes, that had once been so manicured, with not even a strand out of place. Now, it is thin, greasy even, as the once mighty Slytherin stares apathetically out at the sunrise.

Draco Malfoy turns sourly from the window, pushing the now eagerly rising sun to the back of his mind as he walks from the room. Too many memories there, he thinks bitterly, as an immaculate painting of his parents in their youth stares at him from near the doorway. He crosses the halls of the spacious building, hearing his footsteps echo behind him as he steps over the cold marble floor. Stopping before a unconcerned looking closed door, small in comparison to the rest of the towering, masculine solidarity of the building. Slipping through quietly, as if he could disturb someone other than himself and a litter of house elves, he finds himself in the usual place; a small room, walls bare, with only a chair sitting beside the window within.

Sitting down slowly upon the chair, he hears his bones creak through his body with the effort that it causes him. Grimacing at his weakness, he looks out towards the room, as if before an audience.

"Why?" He addresses an invisible crowd, his eyes clenching in pain at how small his voice sounded. How pathetic. Why must something so, so _muggle_ grip him like this? How could something so unnecessary cripple him like this, when he had stood before the Dark Lord and survived with a story to tell?

"This isn't fair." He whimpers, clutching his arms about his emaciated body as if afraid of falling apart. Granted, that is not such an impossible feat anymore, given the facts, but still. He feels so stupid, so useless, as he sits there, tears falling across his pale, yellowing skin.

This disease is going to kill him.

* * *

><p><strong>Harry's POV<strong>

"Harry, would you just listen for two seconds?" He looks up, distracted as his ex wife stares curiously at him. Her brown eyes are cautious, kind, as he fights to remember what is happening. She sighs, twiddling the eagle feather quill in her fingers.

"Wake up, Harry. Please, just wake up." Ginny looks sad, and he sighs, pushing a pile of parchment and letters aside, as he turns towards her, shaking his head in a wasted effort to clear it.

"Sorry, Gin. I'm just over-"

"Worked. Yes, I know." She finishes his sentence, tutting at him as a small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. A crash from upstairs tells them that, yet again, their two sons are fighting, probably squabbling over who's turn it was to use the miniature flying broom Harry had bought James for his birthday. In compensation for not being around so much, he supposes. Ginny raises her eyes to the ceiling, and he follows suit, laughing under his breath. The first in a while. They look at each other, small, sad smiles lingering upon their faces, mirroring each other. He places a hand over hers, his expression saying sorry where words could not.

Raising from the table, he walks towards the door, shutting it quietly behind him as he apparates, the world disappearing in blur of uncomfortable tightness, and the smell of burning rubber.

* * *

><p><strong>Hermione's POV<strong>

Her best friend is sat upon her kitchen table, legs swinging with excess energy. As she waves her wand distractedly at the kettle, it begins to whistle cheerfully into the glowing, noisy kitchen. A blur of red, curly hair flies past her as Rose gallops towards the fridge, eager to find some sort of strange, nut filled snack. The rain outside slams against the window panes, seeming to make the small kitchen appear even more welcoming.

"Cupcake?" She questions, waving the laden tray in front of him temptingly. He glances at the frosted cakes, before shaking his head, looking down at his old Quidditch captain badge that is nestled in the palm of his hand.

"What's wrong, Harry?" She sits down beside him, hand resting protectively on her full-to-bursting womb, picking out a soft, lavender coloured cake from the stack. He shrugs, picking at a hang nail with the sharp point of the badges clasp.

"I just feel restless, Hermione." He mutters, wincing as the point caught on a piece of fresh, soft skin. As a bead of blood spreads across the tip of his finger, he sucks on it noisily, and Hermione rolls her eyes, disgusted.

"Is it work?" She asks, thinking about how stressful it must be to be a healer in this day and age. Ron is an Auror these days, though slightly higher ranking than most, and he is away from home enough as it is. Harry shrugs, placing the badge in his pocket before he can do anymore damage.

"Something's missing. I don't know what." He whispers sadly, and she nods knowingly. He is missing having somebody, that much is obvious.

"Have you spoken to Ginny?" She asks, attempting to draw him out of his own little world, but he merely looks at her, aghast at the idea.

"You think – Ginny and I? No. Never again." He splutters indignantly, and she smiles at his uncomfortableness.

"I mean about maybe seeing the kids more." She finishes, and he relaxes, his shoulders losing all tension immediately. He shakes his head, appearing to realise that maybe, just maybe it was something that needed to be done.

"Goodbye Harry!" Hermione calls out to him as he stumbled for the fireplace, seemingly eager to follow up on her advice. Or maybe just eager to be doing _something_.

* * *

><p><strong>Draco's POV<strong>

People whisper around him as he exits the fireplace of the Atrium stiffly, glaring noticeably at his appearance. Probably disgusted that someone could turn up in their perfect looking ministry as much of a mess as he looks. He walks as nonchalantly as he can across the hall, trying his hardest to avoid the stares, before bundling himself into as lift and pressing "up". As the lift doors begin to shut on the thankfully empty cabin, a hand is placed upon the wire grating to stop the doors from sliding shut. Gritting his teeth, Draco slinks back towards the back of the cabin, trying to make himself as small as possible so as not to draw attention to himself.

Merlin, but he misses the days where he would stand and glare at anything that deigned to enter a lift with him! A body fills the rest of the lift, and Draco blanched in recognition. Beside him, on a lift intended for several floors upwards, is Harry Potter himself. Tall, hair as messy as it ever has been, he fills the lift with a strange aura of physical and mental power that had never been there in Hogwarts. His glasses glint in the light, as he turns to stare awkwardly at Draco.

"M – Malfoy?" He coughs, eyes raking downwards from Draco's unkempt hair to the smart but now ill fitting robes that hang from his shrinking frame.

"Potter." He sneers, trying desperately to regain some of the old swagger that he had commanded when at Hogwarts. Drawing himself up to full height, he pushes himself with some effort from the side of the lift, to stand without help beside the Gryffindor. Potter looks at him somewhat curiously, and raised an eyebrow in question. Draco ignores him, fixing his gaze determinedly at the filigree pattern of the doors.

"What _happened _to you?" Potter asks him loudly, obnoxiously. Slowly, Draco turns to Potter in annoyance, his stomach clenching unpleasantly as the lift comes to a halt on the next floor. Deserted, nobody joins them, regrettably, and the lift carries on its ascent.

"Whilst it is of no concern to you, _Potter_, I am ill, as it is quite obvious. Now I would thank you to keep your irritatingly long nose out of my business, as I have a meeting with Minister Shacklebolt that I would rather not be late for, _thank you_." He glowers at the dark haired man, and turns back to face the doors, seething. Potter, however, has other ideas.

"What are you ill with? Surely you should be at St Mungo's!" He seems to have forgotten who is talking to as he imposes even more on Draco's solitude, and the blond man sighs, turning back once more to the brunette, hearing his spine creak warningly as he does.

"This is not something that St Mungo's can treat. It is a muggle illness, therefore I regularly attend sessions at a muggle hospital. Next question, Potter, since clearly have them." He feels the familiar twinge at the base of his spine, and he bites the inside of his mouth to take his mind off of it. Potter looks abashed, and glances down at his own hands.

"Is it curable?" He whispers, sounding odd in the echoing space of the lift. Draco went white, thinking of what the doctor in the white coat had told him that day at the annoyingly bright, clinical muggle "hospital".

"No."


	2. Two: Senses Fail

_Don't you dare look out your window darling  
>Everything's on fire<br>The war outside our door keeps raging on  
>Hold onto this lullaby<br>Even when the music's gone_

Safe and Sound, Taylor Swift [Feat. Civil Wars]

* * *

><p><strong>Harry's POV<strong>

The man looks down at his hands, fiddling almost nervously with his nails. Harry can not believe it is Draco that he is staring at; he looks so downtrodden, as if the entire world is against him. As he utters that one word, he feels the contents of his stomach – a pumpkin pasty and a significantly odd tasting cauldron cake – hit the pit of his belly. Starting forwards, he makes to comfort the man, only pausing to remind himself who he is stood next to. Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.

On the other hand, he looks so feeble, Harry is not even sure it _is_ Malfoy anymore. The once pristine hair is smattered about his forehead in an array of sticky looking, greasy strands. His mouth is downturned, seemingly permanently as he appears to try to keep up his look of superiority. No, this is not Malfoy; it is a shadow of what he once was.

"What is it?" Harry murmurs, wincing as he hears his voice immediately adopt the talking-to-a-sick-and-dying-person, that whining, pity filled sound of mocking care. Malfoy obviously notices it too, because he visibly bristles, drawing himself up to full height.

As the lift slowly draws to a stop, he steps closer to Harry, the threatening airs that he had once known so well returning momentarily as Malfoy presses his nose close to Harry's.

"Why don't you look it up, Scarhead? Cancer." As a shiver runs through the back of Harry's spine, the still too-proud Malfoy turns from him, a scoff erupting from his throat in a guttural, almost animalistic sound. Harry's heart aches strangely, and he stares after the blond as the lift doors swung shut, to carry Harry to his own destination, slowly, ruggedly.

* * *

><p><strong>Draco's POV<strong>

As the lift doors struggled closed behind him, Draco feels his shoulders slump from the exertion the confrontation had caused him, and he slips silently down the corridor, almost like a ghost. People at desks around him look up as he passes, the visible looks of pity infuriating him with every step. How dare they give him sympathy? He, of the most honourable house of Malfoy? He shakes himself visibly, glaring in his old Malfoy fashion at the piteous faces around him.

A group of witches near him looked suitably abashed as he passes, and he smirks. All that, from a look. He still has the gift of the Malfoy charm, he supposes. He finds his destination – another lift - in his eye-line, and starts towards it, when a crack suddenly rips through his spine, blind white pain shooting through his entire body.

As the ground rushes towards him, his eyes widen, fear coming in an unwanted mess of emotion. It happens as if it were in slow motion; his body curving to the side, arms and legs shaking in exertion as they fight to keep him upright; his hand splaying out in a fan to protect himself from a fall; his robes twisting to the side awkwardly. Too big to keep in one place, they fall in a soft pile beneath him, cushioning him slightly as he feels his body land to the floor.

The wooden floor is dull, a thin line of polished shine from where years of boots have pressed against it. He feels ridiculous as a rush of people flood towards him, a mix of accidental magic officers, and medi-witches that look so out of place in the ornately decorated ministry, instead of their habitually sterile St. Mungo's.

He clenches his eyes shut as he feels hands rest against his skin, wands poking in places he should never have been poked. Gritting his teeth as hands place beneath his armpits as if he were a child, Draco allows himself to be pulled upright, and into a nearby waiting chair. A witch with startlingly white hair is sat in front of him, eyes focused as she waves her wand in front of his nose obnoxiously. He coughs, and she looks up at him briefly, before returning to the wordless spell that she is conceiving, as if he is a test subject rather than a human being.

Sighing into the seat, he gives up to their prodding, zoning out as dozens of wordless spells shoot at him, causing odd tingles here, and annoying tickling sensations there. He is about to let himself fall into nothingness, when he hears an almost too recognisable voice.

"Malfoy, what the bloody hell are you doing here?" A freckled nose is pushed into the place of the white haired witch's, and Draco scowls at his luck.

"I could ask you the same thing, Weasley." He grumbles audibly under his breath, and Ron Weasley scoffs almost brightly, pointing his own wand at Draco's face.

"Ah, it's almost like second year. Hope you got it fixed for this time round." Draco drawls at the freckled face, and Weasley laughs, directing a wordless spell at him that causes his pain to dissipate in a second.

"Well, there's a turn for the books. Why are you here, Weaselby?" Adopting the old nickname made Draco feel as if he were almost back at school, and he shudders as a barrage of memories pound at his already aching head. Weasel is shrugging in front of him, pocketing his wand in his back pocket as he looks for something in his robe pocket.

"Being an auror is a dangerous job, Malfoy. Not all of us have the time for Mungo's." The weasel is acting strange, almost kind, and Draco rolls his eyes. Yet another person turned martyr around him thanks to his illness, who before had acted as if he were the dark lord himself.

Weasley nods his head once more towards Draco, before pulling himself to his full height once more and heading down the corridor. Draco sighs, and stands up once more, waving away the protesting hands and wands that try to get him to reseat himself. Glaring at them with a look that tells them to back off, he draws himself up, and heads off down the corridor himself, beelining for the lift that will take him safely upwards, without Potter's presence.

* * *

><p><strong>Harry's POV<strong>

"Healer Potter? Are you even listening to me?" The minister's voice penetrates his walls, and Harry blinks, looking at Kingsley in mild confusion, as if he has no idea how he has got to the minister's office. The wizard sighs in front of him, his deep purple robes glittering handsomely in the light of the imposing office.

"S- sorry Minister." Harry blinks once more, rubbing his eyes wearingly with his clenched fists. Kingsley looks at him for a moment, the eyes staring seemingly far deeper than Harry is comfortable with. Coughing quietly into his hand, he raises his eyebrows at the elder wizard.

"What exactly was it, sir, that you wanted from me? I should really be back at the hospital… patients to see, you know wha-" Kingsley holds up one slender finger in front of him, motioning to quiet Harry with a look of sheer power. It is clear to see just why Kingsley has been chosen to succeed the former minister for magic, and even clearer why he has remained in the position for so long. The wizard expels an aura of majesty, somewhat frightening and awe inspiring at the same time.

Despite all of this, the twinkle remains in his eyes from the days of the Order, and he smiles kindly as Harry feels his shoulders buckle underneath him.

"Healer Barnes says that you are having trouble at work. Becoming lax, so she said. Normally, this would have gone to someone beneath me, but, being as it's you, and I do care about what has become of you, I am to deal with it." Kingsley raises an arching eyebrow at Harry, and he feels himself squirm under the man's unresisting gaze. Wringing his fingers nervously, his thoughts flicker back for a moment to Malfoy, and his plight.

"I'm having trouble focusing, I suppose…" He drifts off, thinking back to the past week's events. Poor old Mrs Hopkiss being left to stew in a bed of hot sunlight, thanks to his careless attention to the curtains. Sad Miss Prewitt, all alone since Harry forgot to call her partner… He is failing at his job, and he knows it. Closing his eyes slowly, a sad look appears upon his face.

"Well, I have an idea that might be able to help you. I am to assign you to a singular patient so that you can regain your confidence. Obviously, something is wrong in your life, but, Harry, it should not be affecting your performance in and around St. Mungo's." Kingsley looks again at Harry, his unwavering look somehow sympathetic but reprimanding at the same time. Harry nods, knowing that if he refuses, he would simply be jobless.

"There is a patient that needs quite intensive care, currently. He does not reside at St. Mungo's'; what he suffers from is untreatable by magic, unfortunately. One of those innately human things that seems to affect us every once in a while." Harry feels a sudden clench in his stomach, a rise of bile that seems to burn his innards uncomfortably.

"You know each other from school, you should know. Consider this an exercise in… patient relations, maybe." Kingsley raises his eye at a folder lying before him on the desk, motioning for Harry to take it. Reluctantly, he reaches one hand over to the soft brown envelope, and reads the name upon the front, as if is a death sentence.

_Draco Malfoy._


	3. Three: In the Past

_I wanna hide the truth  
>I wanna shelter you<br>But with the beast inside  
>There's nowhere we can hide<em>

Imagine Dragons

* * *

><p><strong>Draco's POV<strong>

"I'm sorry, Minister, I appear to have misheard you. You're doing _what_?" Draco gapes at the minister, hands clenched in tightly gripped fists. Kingsley Shacklebolt merely raises an eyebrow at Draco's tone of voice. Sliding the document across the table, he points a finger at the 'assignment' that has been given to him.

"You heard me, Mr Malfoy. I have a healer who cannot think straight at work currently, who needs to regain his focus. You have willingly entered into a scheme to help healers recuperate after emotional trauma, and this is your assignment." Shacklebolt's stare holds his calmly, and Draco sighs, weariness taking him quickly as he resigns himself to the task.

"I only signed your damn agreement at the start of all this because I thought it'd never come to that." He makes one last attempt at fighting the minister's decision, but the steady gaze returned tells him he's fighting a losing battle.

"Fine. But if this goes tits up, to use the expression, then it's on your back." Some of Draco's composure is slipping; he can feel it. His Malfoy manner always slips around the minister, and he mentally kicks himself as he feels the ridiculous muggle expression fall from his lips.

Kingsley smiles, and laughs as Draco stands slowly from the chair, feeling his back crack at the effort. Glaring at the man, despite his superior position to Draco, he staggers to the door, still feeling the already forming bruises from the medi-wizards attentions earlier.

The corridor outside the minister for magic's office is, unusually, deserted. The usual flurry of activity is stagnant, and for that, Draco is thankful. Limping slowly across the marble floor, he reaches into his pocket, pulling the document from the depths. Smoothing out in his hands, he skim reads it, bored.

Occasional phrases like "recuperation", and "depressive nature" leap out of him, and he holds back a derisive laugh. Of course he has a depressive nature, he's dying! He's about to fold the letter back up, when he finally notices the healer he's been assigned.

As he takes in the information, his blood – whatever of it he has left – runs cold.

_Harry Potter._

* * *

><p><strong>Harry's POV<strong>

"Malfoy?!" Ron's voice is shrill, making Harry's smile hitch at the sound. He nods, holding the letter out for Ron to read. His best friend reads it, and almost immediately, his expression sobers up.

"I, er, saw him in the Department for Accidental Magic earlier. I don't think he was meant to be there, to be honest. Scarpered to the nearest lift as soon as possible. It's just… well. He fell, Harry. Had all these people around him, poking him, testing him. It was weird, seeing him like that. He's _ill_, Harry. Really ill." Ron lowers his eyes, and Harry sighs.

"Yeah, I saw him too. Do you know what he's got?" Ron shakes his head, frowning as if trying to remember, as he flips a frying pan of stir-fried vegetables. Hermione has finally reached a size where she can no longer cook, or even make a cup of tea, comfortably without her ankles swelling to the size of tree trunks. She's curled in the lounge, reading a book, whilst the two of them cook in the kitchen.

"He's got cancer, Ron. The big C. The be-all-and-end-all of life. It's _muggle_." He adds the last bit on the end, as Ron looks clueless at the name. His mouth forms an 'O' shape as his eyes widen.

"Malfoy? The purest of purebloods has a _muggle_ disease? Who would've thought it…" Harry smiles wanly, catching a mushroom as it tries to escape the wok.

"Yeah, I was shocked too. I saw him on the way up to see Kingsley today in the lift. Looked terrible." Ron looks like he's about to say something, then stops.

"Of _course_ he looks terrible. He was diagnosed only three months ago, and was told only a week ago by a doctor that he's going to die." Hermione's voice sounds behind him, and Harry jumps, nearly sending dinner flying.

"How the hell do you even know this things, 'Mione?" Ron asks, with a mouthful full of food as he taste tests his creation.

"I read, Ronald. That's all I ever seem to do lately." She looks balefully at her giant belly, patting it ruefully before dragging herself into a chair. Thankfully, after today's revelation, Ginny has offered to look after Rose for the night. Merlin only knows what hell she is being put through having to control both James _and _Rose. Harry thanks Merlin that Albus is relatively well behaved.

"So, this is a new development?" Harry asks, as he reaches for three plates and wine glasses.

"Yes. There was a small article about it in the Prophet; no doubt they would have loved to write more, were it not for the Malfoys' agreement that no sensationalised articles were to be written about them anymore. One of the Prophet's conditions with that Ministry enquiry they were involved in a couple of years ago." Hermione lays out cutlery as well as she can from her seat, and Harry sits down beside her as Ron dishes up dinner.

"Malfoy's illness aside, what on earth is this assignment that the minister has given you?" Hermione raised an eyebrow, looking worryingly like Molly, and Harry shrugged.

"Malfoy's illness definitely _not _aside, as that's basically the reason for it." He hands Hermione the letter, which is now covered in suspicious marks that look worryingly like soy sauce. He hopes inwardly that Kingsley never requests to look at the letter again.

"He thinks having to focus on one patient alone will help me regain confidence at work again. He says he's given me Malfoy's case because we know each other, but I think it's more to do with the fact that if I stuff it up, as I inevitably will, he's going to die anyway, so it won't matter."

Hermione gasps, clapping a hand to her mouth, eyes widening.

"Harry, you _can't_ say something like that!" She glowers disapprovingly, and he shrugs, stuffing a pile of noodles into his mouth.

"It's probably true though, when you think about it. What am I supposed to do with a dying man? Least of all Malfoy." He mutters into his plate, a dark look crossing his face.

"That's not the point. You should, erm, probably get over the whole school-nemesis thing before you go into this by the way. I don't think it's particularly beneficial to a good beside manner." Hermione is right, Harry knows that, but he sighs all the same.

Truthfully, he thinks that the "school-nemesis thing" ended a long time ago. He hasn't felt anything for Malfoy for a long time, other than respect for all that he did during the war. When he thinks back to what the Slytherin went through for seven years… well. It can't have been much of an improvement on his own situation, really.

"Sure, Hermione. Can we eat now?" Hermione rolls her eyes, but smiles, and turns to her plate, demolishing it in a way that makes Harry think she's picked up more from Ron than she'd like to admit.

* * *

><p><strong>Draco's POV<strong>

Draco drags himself up the drive of the manor, preferring the weariness of the walk than the sickness of flooing. The feel of gravel penetrates his shoes, hurting his feet despite the thickness of the leather soles. He seems to feel pain everywhere these days. Sighing, he reaches for his wand as he exits the wards surrounding his home, feeling dizzy at even the thought of apparation. Then again, he'd take a bit of dizziness over the nausea of his floo any day. The cracking sound he hears as he apparates reminds him of the sound his back makes as he creaks, and he grimaces.

The hospital's apparation point is busy, and Draco instinctively pulls himself into his clothes, shying away from the touch of others. Glancing around wildly, he reads a sign just to his left pointing him in the direction of the _"recuperation suite"_ that he has been ordered to go to. Feeling somewhat ill, he draws whatever of his Malfoy aura that he has left, and swaggers – if he could call it that anymore – through the crowd to the best of his ability.

The walk is long, and arduous. Too many people get in his way, and by the time he draws up outside the inconspicuous door, he's panting, his back hurting more than ever, and in need of a good sit down.

He pushes the door open reluctantly, taking note with some pleasure that Potter is late, so he can choose the comfiest seat in the room, and make it look accidental.

The room surprises him, for a hospital room; it's bright and airy, with multiple tall windows set into the curved outer wall. Looking around, he realizes that the room is situated in some sort of tower, and finds himself drifting to one of the windows, looking down at the busy London street below. Muggles bustle across the street, weighed down by multiple purchases, and he rolls his eyes, placing himself slowly and carefully down in a comfortable looking armchair by another window.

Just as he's settling himself in for what he expects to be a good nap, the door swings open, and he sighs, opening his eyes and glowering at the other man. Potter manages to make being late _un_fashionable, his hair sticking up wildly, with his muggle clothes shabby and patched.

"Sorry about the clothes, I, erm, overslept and didn't have chance to nip home for my robes." He scrubs his hand through his hair, making it even messier, and for some reason, Draco finds himself smiling.

"It's fine; those garish Healer robes make me wince anyway. Lime green is _such _a crime against fashion, that even your revolting jeans are a kindness on the eyes." Draco blushes as he thinks about what's under the jeans, and gapes at himself, reprimanding his inner self. Now is _not _the time to be thinking about Harry Potter naked.

"Fair enough." Harry plonks himself down on one of the other chairs heavily, and Draco snorts, thinking of what his father would say if he had done that when he were alive.

"Shall we get started then?"


End file.
